I had been
putting out your fires for years
So no wonder you
mistook me for kindling
And lit me on fire just to
keep you warm
Your hands shook
as you lit the match
But I, stood still cause
I was blinded by your light
I've risen from the ashes
I may not be fireproof but
**** am I resistant
I mean resilient

You reached for the extinguisher
Too little too late
You had already taken
to a new girl to dry out
before she would go up
in flames
I loved her, too
But she watched me burn
Just so she could have you

So why am I so eager
to forgive the arsonist
Even though he's
suffocating and
won't ask for the oxygen
he needs
Before we know it
he'll mistake himself for
kindling too

There is an ecosystem of conflict thriving in my brain.
A world with questions for residents and doubts for landscapes.
I’m not sure if I’m actually reaching for answers right now,
although something in my soul aches.
Those landscapes are parched
and turning to deserts under the sun the residents have named:
Uncertainty.

Triumph over tragedy is not being dismembered by it.
But how to stop the bleeding?  That is the thing . . .